I should’ve died at 21,
far from home,
sweating out a tropical disease.
I should’ve died at 22,
walking home alone
drunk, down that dark alleyway.
I should’ve died at 23,
racing along the freeway,
a passenger to whiskey and gasoline.
And if I tally up
all the times I should’ve died,
it seems the reaper and I are friends.
Because I’ve come to realize,
that he must’ve let me stay
until I had you by my side.